Books by Margaret E. Sangster

Quotes by Margaret E. Sangster
I know—yet my arms are empty,
That fondly folded seven,
And the mother heart within me
Is almost starved for heaven.
Never yet was a springtime,
Late though lingered the snow,
That the sap stirred not at the whisper
Of the southwind, sweet and low;
Never yet was a springtime
When the buds forgot to blow.
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